'         • .-    7 


THE  LIBRARY 

OF 

THE  UNIVERSITY 
OF  CALIFORNIA 

LOS  ANGELES 


./ 


4 


&/L, 


TAKEN  FROM  A  BUST  MADE  BY  HIMSELF. 


POEMS 


BY 


INNES    RANDOLPH 


Compiled  by  his  Son  from  the  Original  Manuscript 


BALTIMORE 

WILLIAMS  &  WILKINS  COMPANY 
PUBLISHERS 


COPYRIGHTED  1898 
BY  HAROLD  RANDOLPH 


PREFACE. 


As  most  of  the  poems  contained  in  this  little  volume 
were  written  with  no  thought  whatever  of  publication, 
it  may  not  be  amiss  to  offer  a  few  words  concerning 
their  author,  and  how  they  came  to  be  written. 

Innes    Randolph  was  one  of  those    personalities, 
not,  perhaps,   very  often   met  with,   in   whom   was 
'    combined  so  many  clearly  defined  and    varied  tal- 
&   ents    as    to    prevent    the    complete    development  of 
g   one.     It  is,  however,  not  easy  to  say  what  his  career 
might  have  been  had  his  birth  and  early  training  been 
different.     Born  and  brought  up  in  Virginia  at  a  time     <-** 
§*   when  the  old-fashioned,  narrow  ideas  concerning  the 
w   "pursuits  proper  for  a  gentleman"  held  full  sway,  he 
§  was  not  permitted  to  turn  his  attention  to  music,  paint- 
ing, sculpture  or  literature,  in  any  one  of  which,  with 
proper  training,  he  might  have  accomplished  great 
C>    things.     It  is  also  possible  that  even  these  early  obsta- 
x    cles  might  have  been  overcome  had  not  the  Civil  War 
o    broken  out  at  the  critical  moment  of  his  life  and 
|    robbed  him  of  four  of  its  best  years.     After  serving  in     N 
the  Confederate  Army  throughout  the  whole  of  the      ' 
LJ    great  struggle,  he  found  himself  at  its  close,  in  com- 
mon with  so  many  of  his  brothers  of  the  South,  con- 
fronted  not    with    questions    of    artistic    or    literary 
development,   but   the   more   immediate   problem   of 


bread  and  butter.  After  three  or  four  years  spent  in 
Richmond,  Va.,  years  mainly  devoted  to  an  uphill  fight 
to  provide  for  himself  and  family  the  ordinary  necessi- 
ties of  life,  he  determined  to  remove  to  Baltimore, 
and  there  undertake  seriously  the  practice  of  law,  in 
which  he  had  graduated  before  the  beginning  of  hos- 
tilities. With  so  clear  and  brilliant  a  mind  as  his,  and 
so  unusual  a  command  of  language,  he  must  perforce 
have  made  in  this  an  enduring  and  substantial  success, 
had  his  heart  been  thoroughly  in  the  work;  but  the 
law,  like  many  another  calling,  is  an  exacting  mis- 
tress, and  requires  from  her  devotees  an  unmixed 
allegiance.  More  especially  does  she  frown  upon  any 
dalliance  with  the  arts,  and  it  was  simply  not  in  him 
to  blot  out  of  his  life  that  which  so  deeply  appealed  to 
him,  be  the  worldly  reward  what  it  might.  It  was 
during  the  early  period  of  his  residence  in  Baltimore 
that  he  found  himself  most  strongly  drawn  to  sculp- 
ture, and  among  the  various  evidences  which  remain 
to  attest  his  skill  in  this  direction  may  be  mentioned 
several  life-size  busts  of  prominent  men,  among  them 
one  of  Judge  Wm.  Pinkney,  a  marble  copy  of  which 
now  occupies  a  niche  in  the  concert  hall  of  the  Pea- 
body  Institute.  He  also  found  time  to  take  up  the 
study  of  the  violoncello,  upon  which  instrument  he 
finally  came  to  play  with  considerably  more  than  the 
ordinary  ability  of  the  amateur.  But  it  was  in  music, 
which  was,  after  all,  his  ruling  passion,  that  he  felt 
most  keenly  the  lack  of  early  technical  training,  so 
that  no  lasting  mark  remains  to  tell  the  world  of  this 


gift.  It  was,  perhaps,  not  unnatural  that,  finding  him- 
self lured  hither  and  thither  by  such  varied  attractions, 
he  should  finally  have  drifted  into  journalism,  for  it  is 
in  this  field  that  a  wider  range  of  knowledge  and  ac- 
complishments is  called  into  play  than  in  any  other. 
But  the  newspapers  of  today  are  like  huge  furnaces  in 
which  men's  brains  are  used  as  fuel,  giving  out  heat 
and  light,  it  is  true,  while  the  consumption  lasts,  but 
leaving  no  enduring  memory — merely  a  pinch  of 
ashes,  which  is  finally  scattered  to  the  winds.  During 
the  many  years  in  which  my  father  was  a  regular  con- 
tributor to  the  various  daily  and  weekly  papers  of  Bal- 
timore, his  musical  and  dramatic  criticisms,  literary 
reviews  and  miscellaneous  editorials  commanded  the 
admiration  and  respect  of  all  readers ;  but  of  them  all, 
no  trace  now  remains  save  in  the  dusty  files  of  "back 
numbers." 

The  poems,  of  which  the  larger  portion  now  appear 
for  the  first  time  in  print,  belong  to  no  definite  period, 
but  were  written  at  various  times  throughout  his  en- 
tire life,  and  are  indeed  but  the  irrepressible  outpour- 
ings of  a  naturally  poetic  and  artistic  nature.  Of 
those  contained  in  this  volume,  the  ones  bearing  upon 
the  war  will  require  a  word  of  explanation  in  order 
that  they  may  be  fully  understood  by  the  general 
reader  whose  memory  does  not  reach  back  to  that 
stormy  epoch  of  fire  and  sword.  "Twilight  at  Holly- 
wood" was  written  about  a  year  after  the  war,  at  the 
request  of  the  Women's  Confederate  Memorial  Asso- 
ciation, and  was  read  at  the  service  on  Decoration  Day 


at  Hollywood  Cemetery,  in  Richmond,  where  many 
thousands  of  the  heroes  who  gave  their  lives  for  the 
cause  that  was  so  dear  to  them,  lie  buried.  It  must 
be  remembered  that  the  South  was  then  passing 
through  the  scorching  ordeal  of  "reconstruction,"  and 
the  spirit  that  inspired  the  enthusiasm  of  1861  was  still 
alive,  though  broken  and  wasted  by  defeat,  and  the 
utterances  of  this  poem  touched  very  deeply  the  senti- 
ment of  the  time — sentiments  now  almost  forgotten — 
faded  memories  without  bitterness.  But  Southern 
pride  in  the  undaunted  gallantry  of  the  "boys  in  gray" 
will  endure  forever. 

The  "Fish  Story"  was  written  at  about  the  same 
time,  and  had  as  its  sub-title,  "A  Parable  Without  a 
Moral."  Old  Ned  typifies  the  negro  in  slavery,  and 
the  fish  symbolizes  liberty.  Liberty  is  secured  by  the 
negro  without  effort  on  his  part,  and  they  perish  to- 
gether. The  prophetic  foreshadowing  of  the  in- 
creased mortality  among  the  negroes  under  their 
changed  conditions  was  fully  confirmed  by  subsequent 
official  statistics. 

The  lines  to  "John  Marshall"  were  written  immedi- 
ately after  active  hostilities  had  ceased,  and  the  whole 
South  was  aching  under  the  humiliation  of  defeat. 
The  States  were  occupied  by  the  conquering  army, 
and  divided  into  military  districts.  Virginia  was  Dis- 
trict i.  At  this  time  the  bronze  statue  of  Chief  Jus- 
tice Marshall  was  added  to  and  completed  the  fine 
group  of  Virginia  statesmen  that  surrounds  the  noble 
bronze  equestrian  statue  of  Washington  in  the  Capitol 
Park  at  Richmond. 


The  "Good  Old  Rebel"  was  written  shortly  after- 
ward, while  reconstruction  held  sway  in  the  South; 
and  "Torchwork"  is  a  story  of  the  desolation  wrought 
by  the  invading  army  in  the  beautiful  valley  of  the 
Shenandoah. 

It  is  feared  that  some  of  the  other  poems  may  also 
be  in  need  of  a  key,  or  may  prove  almost  too  personal 
to  be  comprehensible  or  interesting  to  the  general 
reader;  but  I  can  see  no  way  to  avoid  this  without 
striking  out  much  that  the  author's  friends  would  wish 
to  read. 

I  think  I  can  hardly  bring  this  little  sketch  to  a  more 
fitting  conclusion  than  by  quoting  some  lines  written 
by  my  father  very  shortly  before  his  death,  after  weeks 
and  months  of  a  painful  and  distressing  illness.  His  s 
death  occurred  in  Baltimore  on  April  28,  1887,  in  the 
fiftieth  year  of  his  age  : 

"Like  little  children  tired  of  play,  who,  weary  of 
their  toys,  find  them  out,  break  them,  and  fall  asleep, 
is  a  man  who  feels  a  mortal  sickness  upon  him,  and 
looks  back  upon  his  past  life.  How  empty  seem  the 
toys  he  has  played  with ;  how  paltry  his  little  victories ; 
how  puny  the  things  for  which  he  gave  his  toil,  his 
blood,  his  tears;  how  less  still  those  triumphs  over 
weaker  rivals  and  the  dripping  blade  that  he  had  borne 
so  proudly.  Yes,  Nature  breaks  these  toys  for  us  as 
the  majesty  of  death — the  eternal — begins  to  soothe 
our  world- worn  senses. 

"As  we  stand  by  the  side  of  one  a  few  hours  dead 
and  note  the  rapture  of  repose  upon  the  silent  face, 


what  friend  would  break  that  repose  and  call  the 
sleeper  back  from  the  sublimity  of  silence  to  the  little 
world  of  passion,  of  toil,  of  failure,  of  grief?  Is  there 
any  prize  of  glory  that  he  would  not  lose  dignity  by 
rising  to  clutch?  Has  love  anything  to  offer  worthy 
to  break  his  slumbers?  Do  not  power  and  riches  or 
sensual  joys  stand  rebuked  in  the  presence  of  the  quiet 
disdain  of  the  beautiful  dead  face? 

"Would  anyone  wake  the  sleeping  child  to  play 
again  with  the  broken  toys  that  he  has  already  found 
out  and  cast  aside? 

"There  is  a  time  to  play  with  toys  and  to  enjoy  them. 
The  earth  is  full  of  beauty.  The  romps  of  child- 
hood, the  passions  and  enthusiasms  of  youth,  are  in- 
deed beautiful  toys ;  and  yet  how  soon  are  they  thrown 
aside  by  the  busy  man,  who  admires  himself  as  "prac- 
tical," because  he  does  so.  We  are  such  dullards  that 
we  do  not  cull  the  fairest  blossoms,  or  cling  to  the  mer- 
riest toys.  Too  many  of  mortals  banish  the  blossoms 
and  hoard  the  husks  of  life ;  and  shabby  and  poor  in- 
deed are  the  broken  toys  that  tumble  around  the  cra- 
dles of  such — little  sordid  properties,  small  vanities, 
successes, — one  would,  in  pity,  hide  such  worn  and 
broken  playthings  and  not  belittle  with  their  mockery 
the  majesty  of  death.  But  even  where  we  play  with 
the  noblest  toys — science,  art,  ambition,  love, — they 
are  cnly  toys  at  last,  and  we  tired  children  find  them 
out  before  we  fall  asleep,  and  when  we  have  cast  them 
all  aside,  to  lie  on  our  great  mother's  breast  is  better 
than  them  all." 

HAROLD  RANDOLPH. 


INDEX. 

TORCHWORK 13 

TWILIGHT  AT  HOLLYWOOD 24 

.  JOHN  MARSHALL 28 

THE  GOOD  OLD  REBEL 30 

A  FISH  STORY 32 

A  GENERAL  INVITATION 38 

THIS  HEART  is  BUT  A  FORCING  PUMP 39 

HE  LISTENED  WHILE  SHE  PLAYED 41 

I  SEEM  TO  STRUGGLE  IN  A  SWOLLEN  STREAM 42 

THE  TIPS  OF  THE  FOREST  SHIMMER 43 

VIGNETTES 44 

I  AM  NOT  UTTERLY  ALONE 48 

WHEN  WE  HEAR  A  PLASHING   LAUGHTER 49 

As  SETS  THE  SUN  UPON  A  SKY  OF  STORM 50 

THE  BACK-LOG 51 

GERMS  OF  GENIUS 55 

THAT  AMATEUR  FLUTE 57 

THE  SHOWER  AFTER  THE  DROUGHT 59 

SONG  WITHOUT  WORDS 61 

YET  ONCE  AGAIN  I  TOUCHED  HER  HAND 63 

A  SUNSET  FACE,  So  WONDROUS  FAIR 64 

LINES  FOR  Music 65 

A  FABLE 66 

THEY  PARTED  IN  THEIR  ANGER  (Heine.} 67 

SHALL  I  LAMENT  MYSELF 68 

'Tis  HERE — THE  LITTLE  WOODED  KNOLL 69 

UNDER  THE  VEIL  OF  STARLESS  SKIES 70 

MY  TEARS  LIE  DEEP  ;  THEY  Do  NOT  FLOW 71 

THE  MOON  LOOKS  DOWN  (Heine.) 72 

DEAD  LEAVES 73 

RESTLESS  NIGHTS 74 

AND  So  I  TOOK  THE  RINGLET  UP 76 


Torchwork. 

i* 

i. 

A  merry  rill, 
With  plashing  steps,  comes  down  the  hill, 

Down  the  hill, 
And,  strewn  with  bubbles,  stops  to  hide 

And  laugh  its  fill, 
And  mirror  on  its  dimpled  tide 
The  grass  that  overhangs  its  side; 

And  laughing  still, 
Among  the  rocks,  it  turns  to  glide 

Down  to  the  mill. 


With  ceaseless  sound 
The  big  mill  wheel  goes  round  and  round, 

Round  and  round, 
Dripping,  trickling,  oozy-gray 

And  iron  bound, 
And  running  o'er  in  antic  play 
In  tiny  jets  and  sprouts  of  spray, 
The  frolic  waters  froth  all  day, 

And  leap  to  ground; 
Then,  foam-embossed,  they  dash  away 

With  joyous  bound. 

13 


Away  it  speeds 

Among  the  reeds, 
With  idle  tongue,  with  prattling  tongue, 

And  whirling  leads 

The  glancing  beads 

Of  foam  along, 

And  runs  among 

The  knotted  oak  trees,  old  and  stark, 
With  tangled  roots  and  mossy  bark, 
Where  drooping  boughs,  with  shadows  dark 

And  vines  are  strung; 
Then  out,  where  sunny  alders  mark 

Its  course  along. 

II. 

A  gray  stone  mill, 
Its  walls  are  piled  with  rustic  skill, 

But  strong  and  stable; 
And  under  its  projecting  eaves 
A  creeper  twines  its  fresh  green  leaves 

And  round  the  gable, 
While  o'er  its  high-peaked  roof  there  waves 

A  spreading  maple. 
It  nestles  in  a  sheltered  cove; 
The  Massanutten  towers  above 

The  storms  to  dare; 
And  stretching  norward  fades  away 
In  lessening  peaks  of  fainter  gray 

And  melts  to  air. 

14 


Or,  standing  in  the  porch,  you  look 
Adown  the  windings  of  the  brook 

Across  the  meadow, 
And  see  the  "Daughter  of  the  Stars"* 
Reflect  the  bluff,  its  rocks  and  scars, 
And  ripple  onward,  streaked  with  bars 

Of  light  and  shadow. 

III. 

Here  seemed  a  calm  and  happy  spot, 
Where  care  and  woe  could  enter  not, 
Deep  hidden  in  the  quiet  glen 
From  all  the  wrath  and  strife  of  men. 
The  miller  well  might  hold  it  dear, 
For  he  had  lived  his  lifetime  here ; 
It  was  his  father's  hand  that  hung 
The  heavy  wheel,  with  droning  tongue, 

Beneath  the  water; 
And  there  his  gentle  wife  had  died, 
And  left  him  naught  to  love  beside 

An  only  daughter, 
Sunny-haired  and  azure-eyed, 
The  old  man's  darling  and  his  pride — 

His  gentle  daughter. 


*  Shenandoah. 


IV. 

And  with  a  soft  and  plashing  sound, 

A  drowsy  sound, 
The  old  mill  wheel  goes  round  and  round, 

Round  and  round, 
His  deep  voice  drones  a  monotone 

From  every  beam, 
While  o'er  the  pebbles  sings  the  treble 

Of  the  stream; 
The  rustling  maple  o'er  the  gable 

Joins  with  these 
In  leafy-shaken  notes  that  waken 

With  the  breeze; 
And  nature's  voices  all  accord, 
In  song  of  brook,  or  pipe  of  bird, 
To  sing  or  whisper  one  sweet  word, 

And  that  is  Peace. 


V. 


The  tramp,  the  tramp  of  iron  hoofs 

With  mutter  hoarse 
Comes  on  with  flames  of  burning  roofs 

To  light  its  course. 
Far  in  the  distance  seen  at  first 

The  dwellings  light, 
But,  one  by  one,  they  nearer  burst 

Upon  the  sight, 
16 


And  all  along  that  valley  fair 
The  homeless  shrieking  of  despair 
Comes  throbbing  upward  through  the  air 
Of  pitying  night. 

VI. 

They  tramp  across  the  rocky  hill, 
And  up  the  pathway  to  the  mill, 
And  riding,  trooping  rank  on  rank 
With  jingling  spur  and  sabre  clank, 
The  men  that  bear  that  order  stern* 
Have  come  to  desolate  and  burn. 
O  God !  may  never  more  return 
A  lot  so  hard  to  bear. 

VII. 

This  is  the  very  glee  of  war, 

A  revel  of  mad  delight, 
When  the  smoke  of  a  dwelling  streams  afar 

On  the  inky  sky  of  night; 
When  the  helpless  sons  of  peace  are  pale, 

And  little  children  feebly  wail, 
And  the  women  are  wild  with  fright, 
When  out  at  the  window  shrieks  the  blaze, 
And  the  sparks  fly  up  in  the  dizzy  maze 

Of  a  hideous  dance  of  death. 

*  Sheridan's  order  to  destroy  the  mills. 
17 


When  out  of  the  smouldering  shingles  burst 
The  tongues  of  flame,  with  their  cruel  thirst, 

And  fierce  and  fiery  breath, 
To  lick  the  roof  with  ravenous  blaze, 
Till  the  glowing  rafter  reels  and  sways 

O'er  the  embers  underneath; 
When  down  they  come  with  a  crash  and  jar, 
And  a  shower  of  sparks  streams  off  afar, 

To  die  in  the  smoky  wreath, — 
This  is  the  merriest  glee  of  war 

And  the  dizziest  dance  of  death. 

VIII. 

She  stands  beside  the  blaze  alone, 

Sweet  Amy  Gray, 
Her  father  bound,  and  hurried  on, 

Is  borne  away. 

They  heeded  not  her  wailing  shriek, 
The  men  were  strong,  the  maid  was  weak; 

They  drew  her  back  from  him, 
And,  mounting,  rode  into  the  night, 
And  faded  from  the  lurid  light, 

And  into  shadow  dim. 
She  listens,  weeping,  weeping  still, 
And  as  the  steps  went  down  the  hill, 
And  fainter  grew,  and  fainter  grew 

And  died  away, 
She  sank  upon  the  midnight  dew, 

Sweet  Amy  Gray. 
18 


IX. 

Where  shall  little  Amy  turn, 

For  all  around  the  dwellings  burn? 

One  only  way  she  hath, 
And  that  is  high  upon  the  cliffs 
To  where  an  old  still-hunter  lives; 

She  oft  has  trod  the  path. 
But,  Amy,  there  are  dangers  there — 

The  yawning  precipice, 
The  moccasin  and  rattlesnake 
Glide  oft  across  the  path  you  take 

And  near  you  coil  to  hiss; 
Perchance  around  you  stalks  the  bear 
Or  panther,  hungry  from  his  lair, 

To  meet  you  in  his  wrath, 
And  dark  and  tangled  is  the  brake 

And  dim  and  mirk  the  path. 

X. 

Spirits  of  the  crag  and  fell, 

Altho'  by  men  unseen, 

Haste  ye  from  the  ferny  dell 

And  from  the  dark  ravine ! 

Oh,  haste,  to  help  an  earthly  child, 

And  guide  her  footsteps  thro'  the  wild. 

The  way  is  toilsome,  steep  and  dim; 

Bear  up  each  weary,  weary  limb 
With  all  your  elfin  art. 

19 


The  maid  is  fair  and  pure  and  meek, 
With  tears  upon  her  pallid  cheek 

And  sorrow  at  her  heart; 
The  maid  is  fair  and  pure  and  meek 

And  innocent  of  heart. 

XL 
O  spirits,  she  has  lost  the  way, 

She  moves  toward  her  death, 
She  nears  the  cliff  of  craggy  gray, 

So  jagged  underneath. 
Oh,  give  a  gleam  of  firefly  light 
To  guide  her  wandering  steps  aright! 

O  spirits,  must  she  fall 
Upon  those  bare  and  jagged  rocks, 

To  beat  out  her  sweet  breath — 
To  clot  with  red  her  waving  locks 

And  still  her  pulse  in  death, 
To  crush  her  tender  limbs  and  die 
In  that  wild  gorge,  with  no  one  nigh — 
To  crush  those  sweet,  sweet  limbs  and  die 
Down  in  the  dark,  with  no  one  nigh? 

XII. 

Her  form  is  shrouded  by  the  night, 
She  stands  upon  the  rocky  height, 

A  span  length  from  her  doom ; 
Nor  knows  that  fathoms  down  beneath 
The  jaws  of  death,  with  stony  teeth, 

Are  waiting  in  the  gloom. 


Another  step — a  cry — and  then — 

The  pulses  of  the  air  were  stirr'd 
As  tho'  the  flap  of  some  vast  bird 

Beat  through  the  hollow  glen. 

Then  all  again  was  silent,  save 

That  echo,  shuddering,  faintly  gave 
The  death-cry  back  again. 

A  horror-stricken  echo  gave 

The  death-cry  back  again. 

XIII. 

The  stars  grow  dim, 
And  low  along  the  eastern  sky 

A  streak  of  day 

Awakes  the  blushing  clouds  to  mark 
The  outlines  of  the  mountain  dark 

Against  her  tender  gray. 
But  wan  and  pale  the  colors  are, 
And  through  them  looks  the  morning  star, 

With  glimmer  slender; 
Until  the  gold  and  purple  glow 
And  all  the  heavens  overflow 

With  rosy  splendor. 

XIV. 

The  mount — a  giant  half-awoke — 

In  vast  repose  reclines, 
Black  eye-browed  with  the  jutty  rock, 

And  bearded  with  his  pines, 

21 


He  feels  the  light  upon  his  crest 

And  rises  from  his  dreams, 
In  all  his  dewy  forest  dress'd 

And  decked  with  all  his  streams. 
And,  oh,  how  lovely  is  the  scene ! 

The  valley,  oh,  how  fair! 
Save  where  dark  ruin's  step  hath  been 

To  leave  his  footprint  there, 
And  nature's  smiling  face  to  mar 
With  that  fell  handiwork  of  war. 


XV. 

For  gaunt  and  blackened  stands  the  mill, 
Its  busy  wheel  forever  still, 

And  mute  its  tireless  song; 
The  vine  and  maple,  crisp  and  sere, 
Ruin,  ruin  everywhere 

Its  splintered  walls  among. 
Too  late,  too  late  thou  drawest  near, 
Sweet-featured  Peace — no  rest  is  here, 
Too  late  for  aught  but  Pity's  tear 

To  wet  the  lashes; 
For  Amy  Gray  is  dead  and  gone, 
Her  happy  home  is  cinder-strewn, 
And  Desolation  sits  alone 

Among  the  ashes. 


22 


XVI. 


Still  floweth  there 
The  stream — no  longer  laughing  now, 

No  longer  gay; 

But  o'er  the  rocks  the  ripples  flow 
And  sob  and  weep  as  down  they  go 

The  livelong  day. 
It  singeth  low  a  song  of  woe, 

Till  coming  where 
The  fallen  wheel,  half-burnt,  is  cast, 
And  black  the  ruins  stand  aghast, 
With  broken  voice  it  hurries  past 

In  pale  despair, 
That  ever  wrath  of  man  should  blast 

A  scene  so  fair. 


Twilight  at  Hollywood. 


Today  our  maidens  gathered  here  to  strew 

The  early  flowers  upon  the  soldiers'  graves, 

In  their  sweet  custom;  and  at  early  morn 

Hither  they  came  with  blossoms,  buds  and  leaves, 

And  earnest  faces  fairer  than  the  flowers. 

No  grave  has  been  forgotten  —  all  are  dressed. 

The  simple  soldier  from  the  distant  State 

Is  loved  and  honored,  though  perchance  unknown, 

And  where  he  sleeps  is  beautiful  with  bloom. 

One  stayed  a  little  when  the  rest  were  gone 

Beside  a  grave.      Quite  motionless  she  stood, 

Until  the  paths  grew  dim,  then  turned  away; 

And  twilight  gathers  over  Hollywood. 

The  sun  goes  down  behind  a  bank  of  cloud 

And  dashes  all  the  stormy  west  with  blood, 

As  dies  a  hero  in  a  broken  cause, 

When,  pouring  out  his  wasted  life,  he  leaves 

The  land  he  loved  to  darkness  and  defeat. 

Far  down  below  I  hear  the  river  rush, 

And  standing  in  this  city  of  the  dead, 

The  voice  of  waters  seems  a  human  cry 

That  rises  from  the  breadth  of  all  the  land 

Of  shivered  hearthstones  and  of  broken  hearts. 


The  city  growing  sombre  in  the  dusk 

Was  lit  with  splendor  forty  months  agone, 

When  all  our  best  and  bravest  gathered  there, 

A  nation's  fortress  and  her  capital. 

The  long  streets  trembled  with  the  tramp  of  men 

And  rang  with  shouting  and  with  martial  strains; 

And  up  the  glancing  river  came  the  boom 

Of  mighty  guns  that  held  a  fleet  at  bay ; 

But  sorrow  came  upon  her  and  defeat; 

She  sank  in  ashes,  and  a  people's  hope 

Sank  with  her,  and  her  glory  passed  away. 

Her  arms  were  overthrown,  her  flag  was  torn, 

Her  children  bent  their  heads  beneath  the  yoke 

In  bitter  silence,  and  her  chosen  chief 

Was  fettered  in  the  fortress  by  the  sea. 

O  rapid  river,  with  the  mighty  voice, 

Rave  through  thy  hills  and  wear  away  the  rocks, 

Even  as  a  people  wears  away  the  heart 

In  thinking  on  their  glory  and  their  fall. 

But,  oh,  the  spirit  of  the  first  campaigns  ! 

Oh,  days  of  life  and  motion ! 
From  Rio  Grande  to  the  Chesapeake 
They  gathered,  sweeping  joyous  to  the  fight. 
The  wild  yell  rising  from  the  tramping  charge 
Tore  through  the  ragged  rifts  of  battle  smoke 
And  rose  above  the  thunder  of  the  guns ; 
And  as  a  great  wave  on  the  open  sea, 
That  strikes  a  blow  and  leaves  a  wreck  behind, 

25 


They  swept  along,  a  living  surge  of  strength, 

With  tempest  voice  and  crest  of  bayonet. 

God  smiled  at  first,  then  turned  His  face  aside, 

And  hope,  that  glittered  like  a  sunlit  sword, 

Was  quenched  in  gloom.  And  still  they  smote  the  foe 

That  rose,  with  strength  renewed,  from  each  defeat, 

Till,  broken  by  their  victories,  they  fell. 

For  ever  thin  and  thinner  grew  the  ranks, 

The  weary  march,  the  hungry  bivouac, 

The  scanty  blanket,  wet  with  driving  sleet, 

The  sleepless  outpost,  listlessness  of  camp, 

The  longing  for  the  loved  at  home — all  these, 

Far  more  than  wasting  battle,  wasted  them, 

Until  their  strength  was  spent.  Now  low  they  lie ; 

And  never  more  upon  Virginia  hills 

Shall  thrill  the  onset  of  the  Southern  lines. 

The  men  who  bore  the  bayonet  and  the  blade 

Shall  bear  them  now  no  more; 

But,  oh,  to  think  how  bright  and  swift  they  were, 

And  now  how  cold  and  still! 

O  rushing  river,  thou  at  least  art  free 
And  fit  to  sing  a  soldier's  requiem, 
Deep-toned  and  tremulous — the  dirge  of  men 
That  once  were  tameless  as  thy  winter  flood. 

When  once  again  we  stand  erect  and  free, 
And  we  may  write  a  truthful  epitaph, 
A  nation,  uttering  its  grief  in  stone, 
Shall  pile  aloft  a  stately  monument ; 

26 


Not  that  their  fame  has  need  of  sculptured  urn, 

For  they  have  lived  such  lives  and  wrought  such  deeds 

As  venal  history  cannot  lie  away. 

Till  then  shall  scattered  roses  deck  their  graves, 

And  woman's  tear  shall  be  the  epitaph. 


O  river,  though  they  moulder  in  the  dust, 

Let  them  not  perish  from  our  hearts — speak  on, 

And  fill  us  with  thy  rushing  energy, 

That  as  the  gathered  freshets  of  the  spring 

Burst  upward  through  the  shackles  of  the  ice, 

So  we  at  last  may  dash  our  fetters  off, 

For  until  then  these  men  have  died  in  vain. 


27 


John  Marshall. 


(Concerning  the  Raising  of  the  Bronze  Statue  of  Chief  Justice  Marshall.) 

We  are  glad  to  see  you,  John  Marshall,  my  boy, 

So  fresh  from  the  chisel  of  Rogers; 
Go  take  your  stand  on  the  monument  there, 

Along  with  the  other  old  codgers: 
With  Washington,  Jefferson,  Henry  and  such, 

Who  sinned  with  a  great  transgression, 
In  their  old-fashioned  notions  of  freedom  and  right, 

And  their  hatred  of  wrong  and  oppression. 
You  come  rather  late  to  your  pedestal,  John, 

Far  sooner  you  ought  to  have  been  here; 
For  the  volume  you  hold  is  no  longer  the  law, 

And  this  is  no  longer  Virginia. 
The  old  Marshall-law  you  expounded  of  yore 

Is  now  not  at  all  to  the  purpose, 
And  the  martial  law  of  the  new  brigadier 

Is  stronger  than  habeas  corpus. 
So  keep  you  the  volume  shut  with  care, 

For  the  days  of  the  law  are  over, 
And  it  needs  all  your  brass  to  be  holding  it  there 

With  "Justice"  inscribed  on  the  cover. 
Could  life  awaken  the  limb  of  bronze 

And  blaze  in  the  burnished  eye, 
What  would  ye  do  with  your  movement  of  life, 

Ye  men  of  the  days  gone  by? 

28 


Would  ye  chide  us  or  pity  us,  blush  or  weep, 

Ye  men  of  the  days  gone  by? 
Would  Jefferson  tear  up  the  scroll  he  holds, 

That  time  has  proven  a  lie? 
And  Marshall  shut  the  volume  of  law 

And  lay  it  down  with  a  sigh? 
Would  Mason  roll  up  the  Bill  of  Rights 

From  a  race  unworthy  to  scan  it? 
And  Henry  dash  down  the  eloquent  sword 

And  clang  it  against  the  granite? 
And  Washington,  seated  in  massy  strength 

On  the  charger  that  paws  the  air, 
Could  he  see  his  sons  in  their  deep  disgrace, 

Would  he  ride  so  proudly  there? 
He  would  get  him  down  from  his  big  brass  horse, 

And  cover  his  face  at  our  shame, 
For  the  land  of  his  birth  is  now  "District  One," 

Virginia  was  once  the  name! 


29 


The  Good  Old  Rebel. 


Oh,  I'm  a  good  old  Rebel, 

Now  that's  just  what  I  am; 
For  this  "fair  Land  of  Freedom" 

I  do  not  care  a  dam. 
I'm  glad  I  fit  against  it — 

I  only  wish  we'd  won, 
And  I  don't  want  no  pardon 

For  anything  I've  done. 

I  hates  the  Constitution, 

This  great  Republic,  too; 
I  hates  the  Freedmen's  Euro, 

In  uniforms  of  blue. 
I  hates  the  nasty  eagle, 

With  all  his  brag  and  fuss; 
The  lyin',  thievin'  Yankees, 

I  hates  'em  wuss  and  wuss. 

I  hate  the  Yankee  Nation 

And  everything  they  do; 
I  hate  the  Declaration 

Of  Independence,  too. 
I  hates  the  glorious  Union, 

'Tis  dripping  with  our  blood ; 
I  hates  the  striped  banner — 

I  fit  it  all  I  could. 


I  followed  old  Mars'  Robert 

For  four  year,  near  about, 
Got  wounded  in  three  places, 

And  starved  at  Pint  Lookout. 
I  cotch  the  roomatism 

A-campin'  in  the  snow, 
But  I  killed  a  chance  of  Yankees — 

I'd  like  to  kill  some  mo'. 

Three  hundred  thousand  Yankees 

Is  stiff  in  Southern  dust; 
We  got  three  hundred  thousand 

Before  they  conquered  us. 
They  died  of  Southern  fever 

And  Southern  steel  and  shot; 
I  wish  it  was  three  millions 

Instead  of  what  we  got. 

I  can't  take  up  my  musket 

And  fight  'em  now  no  more, 
But  I  ain't  agoin'  to  love  'em, 

Now  that  is  sartin  sure. 
And  I  don't  want  no  pardon 

For  what  I  was  and  am; 
I  won't  be  reconstructed, 

And  I  don't  care  a  dam. 


A  Fish  Story. 


In  the  Chesapeake  and  her  tribute  streams, 
Where  broadening  out  to  the  bay  they  come, 
And  the  great  fresh  waters  meet  the  brine, 
There  swims  a  fish  that  is  called  the  drum  — 
A  fish  of  wonderful  beauty  and  force, 
That  bites  like  a  steel  trap  and  pulls  like  a  horse. 
He  is  heavy  of  girth  at  the  dorsal  fin, 
But  tapering  downward  keen  and  thin; 
Long  as  a  salmon,  if  not  so  stout, 
And  springy  and  swift  as  the  mountain  trout  ; 
For  often  at  night,  in  a  sportive  mood, 
He  comes  to  the  brim  of  the  moonlit  flood, 
And  tosses  a  glittering  curve  aloft 
Like  the  silver  bow  of  the  god  ;  then  soft 
He  plashes  deliciously  back  in  the  spray, 
And  tremulous  circles  go  spreading  away. 

Down  by  the  marge  of  the  York's  broad  stream 
An  old  darkey  lived,  of  the  ancient  regime. 
His  laugh  was  loud,  though  his  lot  was  low, 
He  loved  his  old  master  and  hated  his  hoe. 
Small  and  meagre  was  this  old  Ned, 
For  many  long  winters  had  frosted  his  head 

And  bated  his  force  and  vigor; 
But  though  his  wool  all  white  had  become, 

32 


And  his  face  wrinkled  up  like  a  wash-woman's  thumb, 
And  his  back  was  bent,  he  was  thought  by  some 

A  remarkably  hale  old  nigger. 
But  he  suffered,  he  said,  with  a  steady  attack 
Of  "misery  in  de  head  and  pain  in  de  back, 
Till  his  old  master  gave  him  his  time  to  hisself," 
And  the  toilworn  old  bondsman  was  laid  on  the  shelf. 
Though  all  philanthropists  clearly  can  see 
The  degrading  effects  of  slavery, 
I  can't  help  thinking  that  this  old  creature 
Was  a  great  advance  on  his  African  nature, 
And  straighter  of  shin  and  thinner  of  lip 
Than  his  grandsire  that  came  in  the  Yankee  ship, 
Albeit  bent  with  the  weary  toil 
Of  sixty  years  on  a  "slave-trodden"  soil, 
Untaught  and  thriftless  and  feeble  of  mind, 
His  life  was  gentle,  his  heart  was  kind; 
He  lived  in  a  house,  he  loved  his  wife, 
He  was  higher  far  in  his  hope  and  his  life, 
And  a  nobler  man,  with  his  hoe  in  his  hand, 
Than  an  African  prince  in  his  native  land. 
For  perhaps  the  most  odious  thing  upon  earth 
Is  an  African  prince  in  the  land  of  his  birth, 
With  his  negative  calf  and  his  convex  shin, 
Triangular  teeth  and  his  pungent  skin, 
So  bloated  of  body,  so  meagre  of  limb, 
Of  passions  so  fierce  and  of  reason  so  dim, 
So  cruel  in  war,  and  so  torpid  in  peace, 
So  strongly  addicted  to  entrails  and  grease, 

33 


So  partial  to  eating  by  morning  light 

The  wife  that  had  shared  his  repose  overnight, 

In  the  blackest  of  black  superstition  downtrod, 

In  his  horrible  rites  to  his  beastly  god, 

With  their  bloody  and  loathsome  and  hideous  mystery- 

But  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  fish-story. 

Happy  old  Edward — his  labor  was  done, 
With  nothing  to  do  but  sit  in  the  sun, 
And  free  to  follow  his  darling  wish 
Of  playing  his  fiddle  and  catching  his  fish. 
He  had  earned  his  playtime  with  labor  long, 
And  so,  like  the  other  Ned  of  the  song, 
"He  laid  down  the  shovel  and  the  hoe," 
And  caught  up  the  fiddle  and  the  bow. 

Now  I  cannot  say 

That  his  style  of  play 
Would  suit  the  salons  of  the  present  day, 
For  the  tours  de  force  of  the  great  Paganini 
Have  never  found  favor  in  old  Virginny. 
He  never  played  a  tune  that  went  slow, 
For  he  perfectly  scorned  an  adagio, 
But  with  eyes  half-closed,  and  a  time-beating  toe, 
His  elbow  squared,  and  his  resinous  bow 
Not  going  up  high,  nor  going  down  low, 
But  sawing  steadily  just  in  the  middle, 

He  played  by  the  rule 

Of  the  strictest  school 
Of  the  old-fashioned,  plantation,  nigger  fiddle. 

34 


And  now  if  that  fiddle  is  heard  no  more, 

Nor  the  corn-shucking  laugh,  nor  the  dance  of  yore, 

When  the  rhythmical  beat 

Of  hilarious  feet 

Struck  the  happy  "hoe-down"  on  the  cabin  floor; 
But  deserting  those  cabins  in  discontent, 
And  thinking  it  free  to  be  indolent, 
They  leave  the  fields  of  the  rice  and  the  maize, 
And  huddle  in  cities  to  die  of  disease;* 
If  the  Christian  hymn  forgotten  should  be, 
And  idols  be  raised  by  the  great  Pedee; 
Or  if,  mislead  by  villainous  men 
To  enact  the  mad  scenes  of  Jamaica  again, 
They  fall,  as  they  must,  in  the  deadly  assault, 
We  can  only  say  that  it  wasn't  our  fault, 
For  the  South  did  certainly  try  her  best 
To  rescue  them  from  the  philanthropist 
In  a  strife  that  shall  redden  the  page  of  history — 
But  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  the  fish-story. 

To  return — Old  Ned  went  fishing  one  day, 

And  out  on  the  blue, 

In  his  dug-out  canoe, 
He  carried  his  fiddle  along  to  play. 
Long  he  fished  with  his  nicest  art, 
There  came  not  a  nibble  to  gladden  his  heart; 


*  The  official  report  of  General  Howard  (Chief  of  the  Freedmen's  Bureau)  shows 
that  the  number  of  negroes  had  decreased  1,308,000  since  their  freedom. 

35 


So  he  tied  his  line  to  his  ankle  tight, 
To  be  ready  to  haul  if  a  fish  should  bite, 
And  seized  his  fiddle.    So  sweet  did  he  play, 
That  the  waves  leaped  up  in  a  laugh  of  spray, 
And  dimpled  and  sparkled  as  if  to  move 
To  invisible  water-nymphs  dancing  above, 
Reminding  one,  as  he  fiddled  there, 
Of  the  charming  little  Venetian  air — 

"Pescator  del?  onda — Fidulin." 
But  slower  and  slower  he  drew  the  bow, 
And  soft  grew  the  music,  sweet  and  low ; 
The  lids  fell  wearily  over  the  eyes, 
The  bow-arm  stopped,  and  the  melodies; 
The  last  strain  melted  along  the  deep, 
And  Ned,  the  old  fisherman,  sank  to  sleep. 
Just  then  a  huge  drum,  sent  hither  by  fate, 
Caught  a  passing  glance  of  the  tempting  bait, 
And  darted  upon  it  with  greedy  maw, 
And  ran  the  hook  in  his  upper  jaw. 
One  terrible  jerk  of  wrath  and  dread 
From  the  wounded  fish,  as  away  he  sped 
With  a  strength  by  rage  made  double, — 
And  into  the  water  went  old  Ned. 
No  time  for  any  "last  words"  to  be  said, 
For  the  waves  settled  placidly  over  his  head, 

And  his  last  remark  was  a  bubble. 

Let  us  veil  the  struggle  beneath  the  brine 
Of  the  darting  fish  and  the  tangled  line. 

36 


The  battle,  of  course,  was  a  short  one,  since 
Old  Ned  was  not  gifted  with  gills  or  fins, 
And  down  in  the  waves  was  as  much  out  of  place 
As  a  mermaid  would  be  in  a  trotting  race; 
And  motionless  soon  at  the  bottom  he  lay 
As  mute  as  the  fiddle  that  floated  away. 

They  were  washed  ashore  by  the  heaving  tide, 
And  the  fishermen  found  them  side  by  side 
In  a  common  death,  and  together  bound 
In  the  line  that  circled  them  round  and  round, 

So  looped  and  tangled  together 
That  their  fate  was  involved  in  a  dark  mystery 
As  to  which  was  the  catcher  and  which  the  catchee ; 
For  the  fish  was  hooked  hard  and  fast  by  the  gill, 
And  the  darkey  was  lassoed  around  the  heel, 

And  each  had  died  by  the  other! 
And  the  fishermen  thought  it  could  never  be  known, 

After  all  their  thinking  and  figuring, 
Whether  the  nigger  a-fishing  had  gone, 

Or  the  fish  had  gone  out  a-niggering. 


37 

449011 


A  General  Invitation. 


Come,  leave  the  dusty  Longstreet, 

Fly  to  the  Fields  with  me; 
Trip  o'er  the  Heth,  with  flying  feet, 

And  skip  along  the  Lee; 
There  Ewctt  find  the  flowers  that  be 

Along  the  Stonewall  still, 
And  pluck  the  buds  of  flowering  pea 

That  grow  on  A.  P.  Hill. 
Across  the  Rhodes  the  Forrest  boughs 

A  gloomy  Archway  form, 
Where  sadly  pipes  that  Early  bird 

That  never  caught  the  worm! 
Come!  hasten,  for  the  Bee  is  gone 

And  Wheat  lies  on  the  plains, 
And  braid  a  Garland  ere  the  leaves 

Fall  in  the  blasting  Rains. 


This  heart  is  but  a  forcing  pump 
That  fills  its  hose — my  veins ; 

It  works  tonight  with  jerk  and  thump 
And  most  unequal  strains. 

Mechanical  adjustments  are 
The  things  we  call  our  pains. 


Last  night  I  lay  upon  my  bed 

With  nothing  else  to  do, 
And  so  I  listened  to  its  beat 

Almost  the  whole  night  through. 
There  seemed  a  weight  upon  my  breast, 

And  in  my  throat  a  lump ; 
Some  folks  would  call  it  sorrow, 

But  /  know  it  was  the  pump. 


And  once  it  gave  an  angry  thud, 

With  something  like  a  sigh ; 
I  think  a  valve  got  loose  and  forced 

Some  water  in  my  eye; 
A  drop  of  weak  solution, 

And  so  useless  any  time, 
Of  per-chloride  of  sodium 

And  phosphorates  of  lime. 


39 


I  think  I  understand  the  case 

And  know  what  makes  it  jerk: 
It  wheezes  for  another  pump 

To  help  it  do  its  work — 
That  other  pump,  whose  softer  beat 

Once  answered  to  its  own. 
But  steady!  steady!  staunch  old  pump! 

We'll  thump  along  alone. 


40 


He  listened  while  she  played, 

And  watched — with  eyes  half-closed — the  flying  touch 
Threading  among  the  keys,  or  holding  down 
The  long  deep-thoughted  harmonies. 
Pale  Chopin,  with  his  melancholy  eyes, 
His  heart-sick  waiting,  and  his  ghastly  mirth, 
Touched  with  eternal  beauty,  rose  and  came 
And  stood — a  silent  presence — loving  them, 
And  he — the  great  tone-poet  of  the  past 
Shaped  in  the  solid  air — a  Samson  blind, 
Deaf  to  his  own  great  utterances — stood 
Alone — as  he  had  lived — wrapped  in  his  cloak, 
With  shaggy  head  half-bent  upon  his  breast, 
And  watched  them  kindly  with  his  thoughtful  eyes, 
Because  they  loved  him  so. 

And  she  was  fair; 

Her  face  was  all  aglow  with  noble  thoughts 
And  tremulous  with  sensibility. 
He  listened  rapt — as  though  her  thrilling  touch 
Played  on  his  heart-strings,  giving  tone  for  tone. 
They  seemed  to  hear — as  though  the  weight  of  song 
Held  them  together  in  a  strong  embrace. 
Their  beings  sang  together,  like  two  notes 
Struck  by  a  master-hand  invisible. 
They  rose  to  heights  they  could  not  climb  alone, 
And  touched  the  threshold  of  a  brighter  day. 

And  then  the  music  ceased;  he  waked  and  found 
How  far  they  were  apart — not  even  friends ; 
And  on  the  threshold  of  the  brighter  day 
He  stood  and  sighed,  to  see  the  portal  close 
And  bar  him  out.    And  so  the  golden  dawn 
Paled  into  daylight. 


I  seem  to  struggle  in  a  swollen  stream, 
A  spring-tide  freshet  that  I  cannot  stem, 
And,  as  the  waters  bear  me  swiftly  off, 
I  see  my  angel  standing  on  the  bank, 
White-robed  and  calm;  I  sink  and  rise 
And  bubble  forth  a  drowning  cry  to  her 
To  reach  a  hand  to  me. 

I  seem  to  wade  the  burning  desert  sand, 
Blind  with  the  glare,  and  choking  with  the  dust ; 
I  see  my  angel  standing  in  the  shade 
Of  stately  palm  trees,  by  a  little  lake 
That  mirrors  back  her  white-robed  purity. 
I  gasp  to  her  a  thirsty,  fainting  cry ; 
She  does  not  answer,  and  the  mirage  fades 
Across  the  trembling  air. 

I  seem  to  hold  a  wild  beast  by  the  throat 
And  wallow  with  him  fighting,  life  for  life ; 
With  claw  and  fang  he  tears  me  and  I  bleed, 
And  as  my  clutch  grows  weak  and  weaker  still, 
I  hear  my  angel  singing  in  the  trees. 
She  walks  upon  her  way  and  cannot  know 
The  silent  battle  raging  at  her  side, 
Nor  how  I  bleed  and  die. 


The  tips  of  the  forest  shimmer 

In  the  glow  of  the  saddening  skies; 

They  seem  like  the  parting  kisses 
Of  Summer  before  he  flies. 


The  tear-drops  stand  on  mine  eyelids, 
Or  lie  unwept  in  my  heart : 

The  scene  brings  back  in  a  vision 
The  moment  that  saw  us  part. 


I  knew  we  must  part  forever, 

And  saw  that  thine  hours  would  be  brief, 
That  I  was  departing  Summer, 

And  thou  wert  the  dying  leaf. 


43 


Vignettes. 
<* 

Calm-faced  marble  gods, 

Naked,  majestic,  Greek, 
Stand  in  dim  hall  of  the  old  French  palace, 
Mouldering  bas-reliefs  on  antique  tombs, 
Black  basalt  mysteries  of  Egypt, 

Darkly  staring  at  the  void. 
A  voice  that  whispers  in  a  vast  hollow  basin, 
A  heart  far  away  listens  and  grieves, 
A  wide  space  bridged  by  a  word 

Of  burning  passion, 
Unheard  by  those  that  stand  near; 
Heard  only  by  the  gods  and  one  other, 
And  on  and  on  forever 
Across  the  chasm 
Heart  speaketh  unto  heart. 


Long  lines  stretch  across  the  beach 
From  land-fast  anchor 

To  heaving  North  Sea  fishing  boats, 
A  sky  of  dusk  and  amber, 

44 


Broken  with  fitful  brightness 

When  the  rain-clouds  roll  away, 

A  golden  rain  on  the  distant  sea 

And  waves  of  gold  rolling  upon  the  sand. 

A  low,  hanging  full  moon, 

Yellow  gleams  falling  on  the  sombre  plain, 

Glint  of  white  cottages, 

Silvery  trunks  of  birch  trees 

And  tall  spires  of  poplar 

Casting  dark  shadows  along 

The  flat  French  highway. 

The  portal  of  a  cathedral, 

The  rain  dripping  from  gargoyle  and  saint, 

A  shelter  far  back  in  the  shadow. 

Along  the  street 
A  group  of  roystering  sailors  sing 

In  an  unknown  tongue. 
Yellow  lamps  struggle  faintly 

Through  the  fog, 
And  in  the  shadow  of  the  holy  place — worship. 

Roaring  and  singing 

Pours  the  human  tide  over  London  bridge; 
Dark  waters  speed  silently  beneath. 
Through  the  smoke  of  the  city 
Rises  the  cross  and  the  ball — 
And  solitude  and  sympathy 
In  the  midst  of  heartless  tumult. 

45 


The  coast  of  France  bathed  in  sunset; 

A  vessel  that  drifts  noiselessly; 

Old  churches  and  castles  on  the  chalk  cliffs 

Float  slowly  by. 
Fishermen  mend  their  nets  on  the  beach. 

The  slow  revolution  of  windmills, 
Flat  pastures,  still  sheets  of  water, 
The  roar  and  whine  of  an  express  train, 
A  collision  within  that  strikes  fire, 
A  moan  as  if  of  the  wounded. 

A  palace  blackened  and  shattered, 
Tall  terraces,  long  forest  vistas, 
A  mist  overlooking  all 
Where  two  birds  are  happy. 

An  orchestra  rising  wild,  impetuous, 
Pleading,  passionate, 
For  lovers  Tristram  and  Isolde 
Clasped  in  a  kiss — 

Silent— 

The  violin  voices  speaking  for  them 
To  those  who  can  listen. 

A  triforium  where  silent  poets  sleep, 

An  organ  tremor, 
Coming  up  from  the  dim  basilica, 

Upon  whose  floor 

46 


Lie  the  old  Templars  and  Crusaders 

Palm  to  palm. 

A  place  venerable  and  beautiful; 
Saturated  with  prayer: 
Where  the  soul  must  utter  itself  in  love. 

Two  ships  tossing  on  the  sea, 
Leagues  and  leagues  apart — 

Voices  that  whisper 
In  the  vast  sea and  billow  basin, 

And  hearts  that  hear 
Even  as  the  reverberating  spoken  word 
Found  its  way  through  the  dusky  air 
Of  the  old  French  palace, 

And  reached  the  heart  of  the  listener. 


47 


I  am  not  utterly  alone, 

For  sometimes  I  can  trace 
Before  me  on  the  empty  air 

The  seeming  of  her  face. 
The  lips  that  wear  the  well-known  smile, 

Sad  eyes  with  tears  unwept, 
The  angel  face  that  bended  down 

And  watched  me  as  I  slept. 

It  lingers  still,  that  angel  face, 

Upon  the  formless  air; 
I  see  the  pity  in  her  eyes 

And  on  her  lips  a  prayer. 
It  makes  my  very  heart  leap  up, 

As  though  again  I  felt 
The  trembling  of  the  lips  that  kissed 

My  forehead  as  I  knelt. 


When  we  hear  a  plashing  laughter 

Through  the  hillside  trees,  we  know, 
Though  we  cannot  see  the  flashing, 

There  are  waters  down  below. 
So  there  is  a  kind  of  laughter, 

In  a  voice  one  sometimes  hears, 
That  seems  through  all  its  merriment, 

The  sound  of  hidden  tears. 


I  would  wander  by  the  streamlet, 

Through  the  forest  and  the  glade, 
And  listen  to  its  prattle 

In  the  sunshine  and  the  shade. 
For  all  may  hear  the  laughter, 

And  some  may  know  the  tear, 
But  there  is  a  deeper  music 

That  I  alone  can  hear. 


49 


As  sets  the  sun  upon  a  sky  of  storm, 
When  all  day  long  the  ocean's  mighty  heart 
Has  throbbed  in  tumult  in  the  breath  of  heaven, 
And  winds  and  waves  have  kissed  each  other  mad, 
There  comes  a  calm,  and  through  the  sunset  glow 
The  slender  glimmer  of  the  virgin  star, 
Far  off  beyond  the  storm,  looks  sweetly  down 
And  bids  the  waters  throb  themselves  to  sleep. 
So  man,  with  woman's  breath  upon  his  face, 
And  all  the  burning  sunset  in  his  blood, 
And  all  the  ocean's  tempest  in  his  heart, 
Is  tremulous  with  strength.     But  when  the  storm 
Hath  spent  itself,  the  gentler,  purer  love 
Comes  out  above  the  crimson-tinted  clouds, 
The  woman  ceases  and  the  angel  dawns, 
And  bends,  with  starlight  beauty  in  her  face, 
To  kiss  his  eyelids  into  perfect  rest. 


The  Back-  Log. 


It  was  a  rule  at  Thornton  Hall, 
Unbroken  from  colonial  days, 
That  holiday  at  Christmastide 

Was  measured  by  the  Christmas  blaze. 
For  till  the  back-log  burned  in  two, 

The  darkeys  on  the  place  were  free 
To  dance  and  laugh  and  eat  and  drink 
And  give  themselves  to  jollity. 

And  mighty  were  the  logs  they  brought, 

Of  weight  that  six  stout  men  might  bear, 
All  gnarled  and  knotted;  slow  to  burn: 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

Old  Ned  had  cut  the  log  that  year, 

Old  Ned,  the  fiddler,  far  renowned, 
Who  played  at  every  country  dance 

That  happened  thirty  miles  around. 
He  cut  the  log;  for  days  his  face 

Showed  gleams  of  merriment  and  craft; 
He  often  went  behind  the  house 
And  leaned  against  the  wall  and  laughedy 
And  called  the  other  darkeys  round 

And  whispered  to  them  in  the  ear, 
And  loud  the  ringing  laughter  broke  : 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

51 


At  twilight  upon  Christmas  eve 

The  log  was  borne  on  shoulders  strong 
Of  men  who  marked  their  cadence  steps 

With  music  as  they  came  along; 
And  Ned,  with  air  of  high  command, 
Came  marching  at  the  head  of  all, 
As  he  had  done  for  "thirty  year," 
On  Christmas  eve  at  Thornton  Hall. 
He  led  the  chorus  as  they  marched, 
The  voices  rising  loud  and  clear 
From  lusty  throats  and  happy  hearts : 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

Though  briskly  blazed  at  Christmas  eve 

That  fire  with  flames  and  embers  bright, 
Until  the  antique  fireplace  lit 

The  paneled  walls  with  ruddy  light. 
Although  the  spacious  chimney  roared 

Like  woodlands  in  autumnal  gales, 
And  lion  andirons  of  bronze 

Were  red-hot  in  their  manes  and  tails. 
That  back-log,  incombustible, 

Lay  quite  unkindled  in  the  rear, 
Or  only  slightly  scorched  and  charred : 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

Wide  open  swung  the  great  hall  door 
Before  the  east  was  gray  with  dawn, 

And  sleighs  with  argosies  of  girls 
Came  jingling  up  across  the  lawn; 

52 


Came  youths  astride  of  prancing  steeds, 

Came  cousins  to  the  tenth  remove, 
With  cousin  greetings  by  the  sweet 
Lip  services  that  cousins  love. 

The  silver  tankard  went  around 

To  every  lip  with  brave  good  cheer, 
According  to  the  ancient  rites : 

For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 

They  feasted  high  at  Thornton  Hall, 
The  Christmas  revel  lasted  long; 
They  danced  the  old  Virginia  reels, 
And  chanted  many  a  jovial  song. 
The  old  folk  prosed;  the  young  made  love, 

They  played  the  romps  of  olden  days, 
They  told  strange  tales  of  ghost  and  witch, 
While  sitting  round  the  chimney's  blaze. 

But  though  the  pile  of  lightwood  knots 

Defied  the  frosty  atmosphere, 
The  back-log  still  held  bravely  out: 
For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 


And  at  the  quarter,  merry  rang 

The  fiddle's  scrape,  the  banjo's  twang; 

How  rhythmic  beat  the  happy  feet, 
How  rollicsome  the  songs  they  sang ! 


53 


No  work  at  all  for  hands  to  do, 

But  work  abundant  for  the  jaws, 
And  good  things  plenty  and  to  spare 
Made  laughter  come  in  great  yaw-haws. 
They  frolicked  early,  frolicked  late, 
And  freely  flowed  the  grog,  I  fear, 
According  to  the  settled  rule: 

For  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year. 


So  passed  the  merry  Christmas  week, 

And  New  Year's  morning  came  and  passed; 
The  revel  ceased,  the  guests  went  home; 

The  back-log  burned  in  two  at  last. 
And  then  old  master  sent  for  Ned, 

Still  mellow  with  protracted  grog, 
And  asked  him  where  in  satan's  name 

He  picked  him  out  that  fireproof  log. 
And  Ned,  with  all  that  dignity 

That  drink  confers,  contrived  to  speak. 
"I  tuk  and  cut  a  black-gum  log 
And  soaked  it  nine  days  in  de  creek. 
I  fears  it  was  a  wicked  thing, 

I'm  feared  to  meet  de  oberseer; 
But  den  you  must  remember,  sah, 

Dat  Christmas  comes  but  once  a  year." 


54 


Germs  of  Genius. 


My  son  is  a  genius.    "Pis  easy  to  see, 

By  the  drawings  he  makes  on  his  slate 

And  all  the  fly-leaves  of  available  books, 

That  his  name  in  the  land  will  be  great. 

His  beasts  have  such  horn,  and  his  birds  have  such  claw, 

Such  carnivorous  jaw, 

So  capacious  of  maw, 

Such  archings  of  back,  and  such  ponderous  paw, 
Such  freedom  from  all  anatomical  law, 
As  the  eye  of  a  genius  alone  ever  saw. 

And  Gustave  Dore 

In  his  night-marish  way 

Never  pictured  such  terrible  creatures  as  they ; 
For  ichthyosauri  or  pliocene  snakes 
Would  look  gentle  as  doves  by  the  drawings  he  makes. 

Now  some  of  the  pictures  of  Rosa  Bonheur 
Are  rather  good  animal  drawings — for  her; 

But  she  copies  Nature's 

Mere  external  features, 

And  has  no  conception  of  these  sorts  of  creatures ; 
And  as  for  the  paintings  of  Edwin  Landseer, 
With  the  endless  and  wearisome  horses  and  deer, 

His  feelings  I  spare; 

I  forbear 

To  compare 

His  pitiful  portraits  of  badger  and  hare 

55 


With  these  masterly  sketches,  dashed  off  as  they  are,— 
For  no  finish  of  antler  or  gloss  upon  hair 
Can  atone  for  the  loss  of  their  wildness  of  air, 
From  his  smallest  bull-pup  with  the  impudent  stare 
To  his  biggest  brass  lion  on  Trafalgar  Square. 
Now  here  on  the  page  of  my  latest  review, 
That  I  happened  to  leave  but  a  moment  or  two, 
What  is  it  I  find?    A  man  full  of  dread, 

With  a  circular  head 
On  a  triangle  body,  with  legs  at  the  base, 

And  arms  with  no  joint  in 

Horizontally  pointing 
Trifurcated  ends  out  in  opposite  ways, 

Is  receiving  a  blow 

From  the  blade  of  a  foe 
That  cuts  through  the  skull  like  a  keel  through  the  water; 

While  a  rectangle  grin 

Shows  the  grim  teeth  within, 
And  the  terrible  slayer's  delight  in  the  slaughter. 
The  grouping  is  natural,  the  drawing  correct; 
That  foreshortened  arm  has  a  striking  effect; 
But  the  malice  and  wrath  on  the  face  of  the  victor 
Are  what  give  the  wonderful  charm  to  the  picture. 
I  will  tear  out  this  drawing  and  fold  it  away; 
He  shall  have  it  again  on  that  glorious  day 
When  high  on  the  walls  of  the  Temple  of  Art 

The  mighty  cartoon  is  unfurled ; 
For  if  he  goes  on  with  his  pencil  in  hand 
He  will  make  a  great  mark  in  the  world. 

56 


That  Amateur  Flute. 


[The  company  was  all  seated  and  the  laugh  and  jest  went  round  — 
light-hearted  revelers  unconscious  of  their  doom.  The  executioner 
entered.  He  bore  in  his  hand  a  silver  flute.  A  malignant  smile  lighted 
up  his  features.  "  Ha  !  ha!  "  said  he,  with  fiendish  glee,  "  I  will  admin- 
ister unto  them  an  Adagio  ;  not  a  man  shall  escape."  Now  therefore 
this,  accompanied  with  many  apologies  to  the  honored  shade  of  Edgar 
Allan  Poe.] 

Hear  the  fluter  with  his  flute  — 

Silver  flute  ! 

O  what  a  world  of  wailing  is  awakened  by  its  toot! 
How  it  demi-semi-quavers 

On  the  maddened  air  of  night  ! 
And  defieth  all  endeavors 

To  escape  the  sound  or  sight 
Of  the  flute,  flute,  flute, 
With  its  tootle,  tootle,  toot  — 
With  reiterated  tootings  of  exasperating  toots, 
The  long-protracted  tootlings  of  agonizing  toots 
Of  the  flute,  flute,  flute,  flute, 
Flute,  flute,  flute, 
And  the  wheezings  and  the  spittings  of  its  toot. 

Should  he  get  that  other  flute  — 

Golden  flute  ! 

Oh!  what  a  deeper  anguish  will  its  presence  institoot; 
How  his  eyes  to  heaven  he'll  raise 

As  he  plays 

All  his  days; 
How  he'll  stop  us  on  our  ways 

With  its  praise! 

57 


And  the  people,  oh !  the  people, 
That  don't  live  up  in  the  steeple, 
But  inhabit  Christian  parlors 
Where  he  visiteth  and  plays 
Where  he  plays,  plays,  plays 
In  the  crudest  of  ways, 
And  thinks  we  ought  to  listen, 
And  expects  us  to  be  mute, 
Who  would  rather  have  the  ear-ache 
Than  the  music  of  his  flute — 

Of  his  flute,  flute,  flute, 
And  the  tootings  of  its  toot — 

Of  the  toots  wherewith  he  tootleth,  its  agonizing  toots 
Of  the  flute,  flewt,  fluit,  floot, 
Phlute,  phlewt,  phlewgt, 
And  the  tootle,  tootle,  tooting  of  its  toot. 


The  Shower  After  the  Drought. 


It  has  come  at  last.    The  blessed  shower 
Comes  trickling  down  on  the  window  pane, 

And  the  yellow  leaf  and  the  thirsty  flower, 

That  have  watched  the  sky  with  a  yearning  vain, 

Now  nod  and  dance  'neath  the  witching  power 
Of  the  joyous  drops  —  of  the  drops  of  rain, 
The  whispering,  pattering  drops  of  rain. 

Alas  !  for  some  it  has  come  too  late, 

For  faded  they  fell  in  the  parching  dearth, 

Yet  thither  the  sportive  rain  drops  meet 
In  their  weird,  fantastic  dance  of  mirth; 

For  ever  I  hear  the  pattering  feet 

Of  the  elfin  drops  as  they  dance  to  earth, 
Oh  the  fallen  leaves  as  they  dance  to  earth. 

Across  the  shade  of  the  forest  leaves 
The  slanting  lines  come  brightly  down, 

And  the  giant  oak  branch  waves  and  heaves, 
Tho'  ne'er  a  breath  of  breeze  has  blown; 

And  the  gathering  drops  from  the  dripping  eaves 
Fall  plashing  down  on  the  cool  gray  stone, 
Fall  plashing  and  scattering  down  on  the  stone. 

59 


I  cannot  tell  why  thus  I  sigh, 
While  joyous  Nature  laughs  again, 

As  I  look  aloft  at  the  misty  sky, 
And  sadly  follow  the  drops  to  the  plain ; 

But  with  head  reclined  and  half-closed  eye, 
I  list  to  the  sound  of  the  falling  rain, 
To  the  delicate  feet  of  the  drops  of  rain. 


60 


Song  Without  Words. 


I  care  not  for  music  or  song  overmuch, 

Yet  softly  I  entered  to  gaze 
On  the  swift  moving  hand  in  its  delicate  touch 

And  the  face  that  grows  bright  while  she  plays. 
The  music  breathes  low  like  a  half-uttered  sob, 

A  whisper  of  deep  harmonies, 
And  the  cadence  beats  out  with  a  passionate  throb 
As  she  turns  her  away  from  the  keys. 
With  dreamful  eyes  she  turns  away, 

Lost  in  a  deep  reverie; 
What  does  she  see  in  the  far  dreamland  — 
Dare  I  to  think  it  is  me? 

Shall  I  call  her  back  from  her  far  dreamland 

With  the  words  I  tremble  to  speak? 
Shall  I  catch  and  prison  her  tiny  hand 

Or  touch  my  lips  to  her  cheek? 
What  a  flush  would  come  on  her  blue-veined  brow, 

And  her  eye  flash  indignantly, 
As  I  kneel  for  a  pardon,  to  tell  her  how 
Her  beauty  bewildered  me! 

Still  in  the  fairyland  wandering  on, 

Listless  she  touches  the  key  ; 
Touches  it  silently  —  day-dreaming  Marion  ! 
Can  she  be  dreaming  of  me? 
61 


She  has  smitten  a  music  within  me  that  long 

Had  silently  slumbered  unknown, 
As  sunrise  on  Memnon  awakened  a  song 
In  the  breast  of  colossal  stone. 

Dearest,  I  love  you,  and  fain  would  speak 

My  love  in  the  soul-felt  chords 
Of  an  unspoken  music,  for  language  is  weak 
And  love  is  a  "song  without  words." 


62 


Yet  once  again  I  touched  her  hand, 

The  fairest  of  the  fair ; 
The  queen  cf  all  the  loveliness 

That  had  assembled  there. 
Our  words  were  few  and  careless, 

That  they  might  not  understand 
The  rush  of  deeper  meaning 

As  it  thrilled  from  hand  to  hand. 

I  passed  with  head  averted, 

For  fear  our  eyes  should  meet ; 
And  trembling  and  bewildered, 

I  should  cast  me  at  her  feet. 
But  still  I  felt  her  presence, 

Though  my  eyes  were  turned  away, 
In  her  beauty's  isolation, 

Turning  all  the  rest  to  clay. 


A  sunset  face,  so  wondrous  fair, 

Its  pearly  brightness  seemed  to  speak ; 
With  sunset  gold  upon  her  hair, 

And  sunset  rose  upon  her  cheek ; 
And  eyes  that  seemed  like  gleams  of  blue, 

When  gates  of  cloud  are  half  ajar, 
And  from  the  rift  comes  softly  through 

The  glimmer  of  the  vesper  star. 


I  made  a  heaven  of  her,  my  love 

Was  like  a  twilight  reverie ; 
I  drank  her  beauty  like  the  air, 

The  outer  world  seemed  lost  to  me ; 
And  so  it  seemed  a  sudden  jar, 

And  like  a  very  death  to  mark 
My  sunset  pale  from  gold  to  gray, 

And  I  was  standing  in  the  dark. 


Lines  for  Music. 


The  sweet  airs  of  spring  will  come  over  the  snow 

And  waken  the  songs  of  the  birds  as  they  go, 

And  breathe  on  the  buds  till  they  burst  into  green 

And  wild  flowers  will  spring  where  their  footsteps  have  been. 


But  he  that  was  sunshine  and  blossom  and  song, 
He  cometh  no  more,  and  my  winter  is  long; 
He  cometh  no  more  my  beloved  to  be, 
And  springtide  hath  never  a  blossom  for  me. 


A  Fable. 


There  lived  a  man  in  olden  time 

That  loved  a  stone; 
T'was  veined  with  lines  of  tender  hue, 

With  flowers  overgrown. 
He  wooed  it  from  the  flush  of  dawn 

To  twilight  lone; 
T'was  wondrous  lovely,  so  he  thought, 

But  still  a  stone. 

He  tried  to  cut  his  name  thereon 

And  leave  a  trace 
Of  his  great  love,  so  deep  that  Time 

Should  not  erase. 
He  kissed  the  unrelenting  rock 

From  cope  to  base; 
He  gashed  his  breast  in  clasping  it 

With  wild  embrace. 

He  sought  to  warm  it  with  his  breath, 

That  icy  stone; 
The  coldness  chilled  him  unto  death, 

Through  flesh  and  bone. 
And  so  he  perished  then,  and  lay 

All  pale  and  prone;  — 
He  thought  he  loved  a  woman,  but  — 

He  loved  a  stone. 

66 


They  parted  in  their  anger, 
That  had  met  so  oft  in  bliss, 

And  words  of  scorn  were  uttered 
By  the  lips  that  loved  to  kiss. 


There  was  sound  of  cruel  laughter 
And  never  a  trace  of  tears; 

The  tears  shall  come  hereafter 
In  the  waste  of  coming  years. 


67 


Shall  I  lament  myself  and  whine 

With  fruitless  yearning, 
Or  dull  with  lust,  or  drown  in  wine 

My  deep  heartburning? 


There  was  no  toil  for  her  sweet  sake 

But  I  could  dare  it, 
And  now  no  gash  that  love  can  make 

But  strength  can  bear  it. 


68 


Tis  here — the  little  wooded  knoll. 

Dear  friend,  do  you  remember 
The  stately  oak,  the  silver  beech, 

The  skies  of  gold  and  amber, 
The  haze  of  Indian  summer's  glow, 

The  dreamful,  rich  November? 


With  buoyant  step  and  throbbing  pulse 

Along  the  steepside  onward, 
With  childish  jest  and  childish  laugh, 

As  hand  in  hand  we  wandered, 
And  waded  through  the  rustling  gold 

That  spendthrift  trees  had  squandered? 


And  now  what  ghost  of  vanished  joy 
Has  drawn  my  footsteps  hither? 

The  April  tears  have  soaked  the  leaves 
And  chilled  the  dreamful  weather, 

And  I  am  standing  all  alone 
Where  once  we  sat  together. 


69 


Under  the  veil  of  starless  skies, 

Fanned  by  the  soft  night  breeze, 
A  green  hill  sloping  beneath  our  feet, 

Above  us  the  rustling  trees ; 
Around  us  the  glimmer  of  city  lights 

And  its  murmuring  monotone, 
And  within  us  the  beat  of  happy  hearts, 

Unfettered — in  darkness — alone. 


The  great  night  spoke  with  her  tender  voice, 

And  whispered  of  love  and  rest; 
The  tall  trees  guarded  like  sentinels 

The  way  to  our  darksome  rest, 
That  none  might  know  of  the  passionate  limbs 

Caressing  and  caressed; 
And  the  sweet  sky  clouded  her  countless  eyes, 

And  the  old  earth  offered  her  breast. 


The  city's  laws,  like  the  city's  noise, 

Seemed  feeble  and  far  away, 
And  earnest  eyes  and  yearning  hearts 

Are  stronger  far  than  they; 
For  nature  speaks  with  a  fuller  voice, 

So  loving  and  tender  and  sure, 
That  love  is  pure  in  the  human  heart 

As  the  earth  and  the  sky  are  pure. 
70 


My  tears  He  deep ;  they  do  not  flow 
With  all  my  pain  that  thus  we  part. 

Goodbye,  since  she  has  willed  it  so, 
And  may  she  wear  a  lightsome  heart. 

I  do  not  claim  that  sort  of  pride 
That  bids  me  bear  it  with  a  smile, 

Or  say  the  hurt  that  I  deride 
Will  only  last  a  little  while. 

The  glows  of  poesy  or  art, 

The  dreams  that  music's  breath  can  stir, 
Were  mingled  with  her  in  my  heart, 

And  tempered  all  my  thoughts  of  her. 

A  name  that  came  with  morning  light 
Upon  my  lips  and  lingered  there, 

And  when  I  laid  me  down  at  night, 
Repeated  as  my  only  prayer. 

And  now,  a  faithful  courtier's  fall 
When  blasted  by  a  king's  decree, 

He  loses  wealth  and  honors  all, 
And  titles  of  nobility. 

'Tis  thus  I  lose  my  rank  and  pride ; 

I  cannot  bear  it  with  a  smile, 
Or  say  the  hurts  I  cannot  hide 

Will  only  last  a  little  while. 

71 


After  Heine. 

The  moon  looks  down  and  sees  her  image 

Tossing  in  the  ocean's  wrath, 
Yet  above,  all  safe  and  placid, 

Glides  along  her  heavenly  path. 


Thus  thou  movest,  my  beloved, 
Far  above  me,  safe  thou  art, 

And  thine  image  only  trembles 
In  the  tempest  of  my  heart. 


A  free  version  of  the  above. 

Moonlight  spreads  her  track  of  silver 
O'er  the  water's  ceaseless  wars, 

Even  to  the  dim  horizon, 
Like  a  pathway  to  the  stars. 


So,  beloved,  will  thine  image 
Reach  across  my  restless  deep, 

Even  to  that  dim  horizon 
Where  my  waves  shall  sink  to  sleep. 


72 


Dead  Leaves. 


They  grew  upon  the  hillside 

In  the  springtide  of  their  hope, 
When  white  clouds  sent  the  shadows 

Chasing  up  and  down  the  slope ; 
They  laughed  above  the  waters, 

They  whispered  in  the  trees, 
And  tossed  their  airy  foreheads 

To  the  sunlight  and  the  breeze. 

A  shadow  fell  upon  them, 

A  canker  and  a  blight; 
They  were  fresh  and  green  at  midnight, 

They  were  dead  at  morning  light. 
Yet  still  they  seemed  the  fairest 

Of  the  sisters  of  the  wood, 
Though  their  notched  and  tender  edges 

Were  dabbled  in  their  blood. 

And  then  a  fair  hand  took  them 
Ere  they  wholly  passed  away, 
And  with  a  loving  pencil 
Caught  their  beauty  from  decay. 
Ah,  there  is  a  charm  of  sadness 

In  the  hope  that  withereth, 
And  every  blessing  loved  and  lost 
Is  beautiful  in  death. 

73 


Restless  Nights. 


I  know  her  eyes  are  sleepless  like  my  own, 
Her  limbs  are  restless  and  her  thoughts  astir  ; 

She  knows  that  I  am  wakeful,  far  away, 
And  that  I  stretch  my  empty  arms  to  her. 

She  hears  the  deep  bell  beat  the  night  away, 
Her  eyelids  droop,  that  waken  with  a  start  ; 

She  hears  a  footfall  die  along  the  street, 
And  louder  still  she  hears  her  beating  heart. 

I  know  the  thought  that  steals  away  her  rest  : 
She  seems  to  hear  a  voice  that  bids  us  part  ; 

And  then  she  hears  me  speak  with  plaintive  look, 
And  louder  still  her  yearning  woman's  heart. 

I  live  the  burning  moments  o'er  again, 
That  fled  so  fast  and  yet  were  years  to  live  ; 

I  feel  once  more  the  wilder,  deeper  kiss, 
That  gave  me  all  that  innocence  could  give. 

I  felt  it  once  again  —  and  yet  again 

I  breathe  my  life  out  in  that  mad  caress  ; 

My  lips  are  burning  with  its  passion  still, 
My  tears  are  gushing  at  its  tenderness. 

74 


Can  that  be  false  that  makes  her  look  so  fair? 

Can  that  be  sin  that  lifts  me  to  the  skies? 
Can  that  be  shame,  that,  like  a  mother's  prayer, 

Brings  such  a  holy  beauty  in  her  eyes? 


But,  O  beloved !  o'er  my  stormy  heart 
Your  starlike  purity  is  shining  now ; 

And  sweeter  far  than  all  the  rest  of  life, 
I  feel  your  prayerful  kiss  upon  my  brow. 


The  broken  voice  that  calls  a  blessing  down, 
The  hands  that  smoothed  so  tenderly  my  hair, 

I  feel  the  tremor  of  the  lips  that  breathed 
A  woman's  passion  and  an  angel's  prayer. 


But,  O  my  darling,  lie  no  more  awake, 
The  heart  is  sore,  but  pure  and  undefiled ; 

The  angels  keep  you.     Breathe  a  prayer  for  me, 
And  sink  to  slumber  like  a  tired  child. 


75 


And  so  I  took  the  ringlet  up 

And  held  it  in  the  sun ; 
But  yet  it  spoke  no  word  to  me 

Of  my  beloved  one. 
I  only  saw  a  tress  of  hair, 

Of  loveliness  untold ; 
And  that  the  sunlight  turned  the  threads 

To  films  of  burning  gold. 


But  then  I  pinned  it  at  my  throat, 

Before  I  sank  to  rest ; 
And  tenderly  the  long  night  through, 

It  slept  upon  my  breast ; 
It  slept  upon  my  breast  as  tho' 

Her  cheek  were  pillowed  there; 
But  still  it  brought  no  dream  to  me, — 

That  silent  tress  of  hair. 


Oh,  speak — I  pressed  it  to  my  lips, — 

Thou  silent  tress  of  hair; 
And  then  it  twined  around  my  wrist, 

And  seemed  to  nestle  there ; 
And  seemed  to  say  with  its  caress, 

A  whispered  promise — well, 
Of  something  sweet  in  store  for  us, 

But  what,  it  would  not  tell. 

76 


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